


Mandatory Disclosure Not Required

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Developing Relationship, Ghost Bucky Barnes, Horror, I guess sort of describes it?, I've honestly no idea how to tag this, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, do not rely on summary for legal advice, i dunno, might be a bit darkish?, that's important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7445839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Stigmatised property is property which may be shunned for reasons other than its physical condition. Reasons like a murder or a belief that it's haunted. Most jurisdictions require mandatory disclosure to a buyer where the property's stigmatised nature could affect its value. There's no such requirement to inform renters.</i> </p><p>Steve should have asked more questions, but a two bedroom apartment with good light in that part of the city? At that price? He couldn't say no. He needed a place to live at a price he could afford and, well, gift horses and mouths, he wasn't going to look too closely. </p><p>There was a reason the apartment was so cheap. There was a reason tenants didn't last. There was always a reason for everything. Steve should have remembered that. He was about to be reminded, because his name might be on the lease, but it wasn't his apartment. </p><p>Something already lived there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mandatory Disclosure Not Required

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt on Tumblr: _One night in bed, you ignore all common sense by deciding to fall asleep with one arm dangling off the bed, and an hour later, you awake to find that you can feel something strangely cold touching the dangling arm. You are about to jerk away in horror when you suddenly realize that whatever it is, it appears to be tenderly holding your hand._
> 
> The idea for this dropped into my head pretty much fully formed, but guys, I'm gonna level with you: I'm way far out of my writing comfort zone here. I was trying for creepy in places, so it might be? I'm not sure but that's what I was going for so please proceed accordingly and consider this a **warning for possible creepiness** (if that's even a thing you warn for, but just in case).

* * *

 

The fire began, like most things, slow and small. If someone had noticed it early enough it could have been stopped. But the asshole who'd started it—drunk, drugged, smoking in bed and the slow burn of a lit cigarette dropped on the carpet—was too far gone to notice anything.

Steve had very little time to grab the things that mattered: minutes to make a choice about what, in the collection of his life, was worth saving.

When they were allowed back in, not to stay, the building had been declared unfit for habitation, he salvaged what he could. The fire hadn't reached his apartment, but smoke had. Water had. High pressure hoses and axes and the broken glass of shattered windows where firefighters had used his apartment to smash their way into the building.

Kitchen gear, clothes, some art supplies whose importance had nothing to do with sentiment. Those were how he made a living. Those he needed to pay the bills. Those were goddamned expensive to replace.  Most of the furniture, but it would need to be stripped bare, scrubbed clean. He had renter's insurance, but he'd heard the horror stories. He knew he wouldn’t be getting much.

He was right.

 

* * *

 

The listing was a dream. Steve suspected a scam, because a two bedroom apartment in that part of New York at that price?

But he called. He didn't really have a choice. He was broke, he needed somewhere to live and there were a limited number of nights his insurance company was going to put him up in the crappy motel. Maybe if he hadn't pushed everyone away so aggressively after his ma died there'd be couches he could crash on, but he had and those doors were closed to him. Besides, anyone trying to scam him was going to be in for a hell of a shock. People might judge him by his size, by his narrow wrists and his bony shoulders, and assume he was a pushover, but he was oh-so-quick to prove them wrong.

To his surprise, it seemed legitimate. The building agent agreed to let him see the apartment that day. Handed him the keys and waved him out of her office, several blocks from the apartment building itself.

Steve stared at the keys then back at the office door as he stepped out onto the street, brows arched in surprise. Then he shrugged and went to look at the place. It was nice. High ceilings. Big windows. Wooden floors. Second floor with two entrances: front door opening from the living room into the building, back door opening from the kitchen onto a tiny landing with stairs leading down to an alley. He called the building agent. "Is this a mistake?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, Mr Rogers." The woman was prim and professional.

"The rent listed for this apartment." He repeated the amount; it was a third less than his old place, which had been smaller and crappier even before the fire.

"That's correct. If you're interested, come back to the office and we can sign the paperwork." If you're not, her tone added, stop wasting my time.

"Is there some problem with it?"

"That's why you're given the opportunity to inspect the property prior to signing a lease."

Steve looked around again. Cool air swirled through the apartment. It ruffled his hair, tickling the back of his neck, making him shiver. He needed somewhere to live and this was better than he'd ever thought he'd find, better than he'd have been able to afford even _before_ fire had gutted the bottom floor of his old building, before smoke and water and shattered glass had turned a good chunk of his life into nothing but garbage. "I'll take it."

"Excellent, Mr Rogers. See you soon."

 

* * *

 

Steve used part of the pittance the insurance company had grudgingly paid him to hire a couple of local guys to help him move the possessions he had left. There was a lot of cheerful swearing and yelling as they manoeuvred his furniture, still smelling faintly of smoke, up the narrow stairs and across the landing. Narrow as they were, it had been easier to park in the alley and bring everything straight up.

His attempts to help were waved away with, "You're paying us," and "We've got this." Steve bristled, folded his arms, but he wasn't sure if they meant what they were saying or were judging him because of his size. They were so good-natured, he gave them the benefit of the doubt, standing back to direct them.

They dropped the couch, acquired post-fire from the side of the road and ugly with its heritage, in the middle of the living room, and looked around. "I thought this place was going to be darker," one said. "More," he waved a hand, "you know, weird."

Steve spun around to stare at him in confusion. "What?"

They shared a glance, shifted their gazes to Steve then away. "Never mind," the first one said.

"We'd better get going," said the second.

Steve paid them, thanked them, and watched them trot down the stairs. The cool breeze ruffled the hairs on his arms, raising goosebumps.

 

* * *

 

The last, and the bulk, of the pittance was spent replacing his art supplies.

It was expensive, it cleaned him out, but Steve didn't have a choice. There was nothing romantic about the cliché of the starving artist, and he had no desire to live it, but he had to spend the money. There were commissions he had to finish, had to start again from scratch. Jobs he had to get done.

Almost everyone had been understanding—some asshole setting a building on fire was obviously outside his control—but understanding could only be pushed so far and it didn't pay rent or buy food.

He set the second bedroom up as a studio. It was the first time he'd ever had a dedicated studio and it filled him with a sense of happiness, made him feel like his luck was changing.

 

* * *

 

"You're the boy who moved into number four."

Steve stopped shoving his laundry into the washing machine and turned around, scowling, ready to make it clear he wasn't a _boy_ , thank you, he was a grown-ass man, when he realised the woman who'd spoken was at least eighty. His expression smoothed. "That's right, ma'am."

"It's haunted, you know."

Steve didn't smile. He didn't laugh. He'd been raised by his ma to be polite. To be respectful. "I didn't know that."

The woman looked sharply at him out of deep brown eyes. "You will soon enough." She didn't say anything else, just shuffled over to a dryer, pulled the basket off the top off it, and set it in front of the door.

"Do you want me to do that for you?" Steve asked her.

It got him another sharp look and then she graciously inclined her head. "That would be kind of you."

Steve took her clothes out of the dryer, put them in the basket, and then carried them up four flights of stairs. Before she went into her apartment, she patted his arm and said, "Be careful."

 

* * *

 

When Steve walked back into his apartment, laundry basket on his hip, he stopped inside the doorway. Looked around. Walked farther in and set the basket on the couch.

"Apparently you're haunted?" he said to the open air, feeling like an idiot.

He felt like even more of an idiot when exactly nothing happened. He felt like the biggest idiot _in the world_ when he realised he'd been _waiting_ for something to happen.

"Okay, Rogers, don't listen to old ladies you meet in laundry rooms. They'll send you 'round the bend," he muttered, shaking his head and chuckling at himself.

 

* * *

 

Steve had been living in the apartment for five days when a crashing, loud and violent, hauled him out of sleep in the middle of the night.

Grabbing the baseball bat that lived next to his bed, he leapt up and made his cautious way into the living room.

The bookshelf was lying on the floor.

Not like it had fallen. Almost like someone had grabbed it and ripped it away from the wall. The books that had survived the fire were strewn across the chilled living room. A cool breeze ruffled the hairs on his arms.

Steve's hands tightened around the bat as his eyes darted, quick and wary, looking for shapes that didn't belong, shadows that weren't in the right place, any sign, any indication, that there was someone else here, that someone had broken in and done this, but there was nothing.

He turned on all the lights, went through the entire apartment, bat at the ready, but no one was there. The front and back doors were still locked.

With a sigh, Steve leaned the bat against the wall, heaved the shelf back into place, and carefully started picking up his books. They still smelled faintly of smoke and now some had bent covers. One had a torn spine. He sadly ran a finger down it, then gently placed it back on the shelf.

He'd go to the hardware store tomorrow and buy what he needed to attach the shelf to the wall. It shouldn't cost much and he could eat noodles for a few nights.

He didn't want it to happen again.

 

* * *

 

Steve started to wonder if he was sleep walking.

It was small things. Things weren't where he was sure he'd left them. His keys not in the bowl by the back door. His phone nowhere to be found, turning up under his bed. An endless parade of small annoyances. Maybe he was losing his mind.

Maybe he was suddenly clumsy. Things were breaking. Mugs fell off counters. He found dishes smashed in the sink.

He came out one morning to find the bookshelf leaning forward against its restraints and was very glad he'd bolted it to the wall.

He was on the couch watching TV one night, wrapped in two blankets because it was freezing, when he set his glass on the coffee table. With a groaning crack it split down the middle, dropping the glass onto the floor.

Steve stared at it for a long time, his brain ticking over. It had survived the fire. The smoke, the water, it must have been too much for the cheap wood.

It was amazing it had lasted as long as it had. 

 

* * *

 

It was an old apartment in an old building. The cheap rent had to mean there was something wrong with it. Steve figured that explained why it was so damned cold. Not all the time, but in pockets and in moments. 

Like when he got out of the hottest shower he could stand, trying to fend off the cold, wrapped the towel around his hips and walked over to stand in front of the mirror. The temperature plummeted, raising gooseflesh all over his body, making every hair stand on end. He would have sworn, for one brief second, that the mirror's edge went white with frost, but he'd never know for sure because it _shattered_.

He leapt back, slipped on the wet floor and his feet went out from under him. He barely kept his head from slamming into the tiles, catching himself with a hand braced on the wall, and he was left, panting and gasping for breath, sprawled on the floor staring up at his own fractured reflection. 

It must have been the temperature drop. Old mirrors were backed with silver, he reasoned, and silver was a metal. Metal expanded and contracted when the temperature changed and if it changed that fast, well, it was no surprise an old mirror like that would crack.

When Steve called the building agent to explain what had happened she seemed strangely unsurprised. Steve couldn't say the same when she told him _he'd_ have to arrange for someone to come and replace it and have them send her the bill. 

It took him a week to line someone up, a week in which he carefully avoided looking at his reflection in the broken mirror. It was disturbing and he couldn't help thinking about seven years bad luck.

Not that he believed in things like that.

 

* * *

 

The light in the second bedroom was golden and bright, perfect for painting. It should have made Steve's studio a warm and welcoming place to work. Instead it was cold. It was incredibly cold. He had to wear multiple sweaters and today he'd broken into his stash of vaguely smoke-scented winter clothes and dug out a pair of ratty fingerless gloves.

He had a cup of hot tea, more to warm his fingers than because he wanted to drink it. Honestly, if he was a little less stubborn he'd give up and move to the living room, but he'd never had a studio before and he'd be damned if he'd give this one up just because it was cold, especially when the light in here was perfect.

The painting he was working on was boring. Watercolours, which he loved, but the subject matter was going to put him to sleep. His client wanted a happy, traditional family: mother, father, two children and a dog, in the blandest possible colours Steve could manage.

Steve finished the father, lifted his brush to start on the mother, then had to give up. It was too cold. His tea was ice and his fingers were aching.  He wished he could afford a heater but right now he barely had the money to cover his bills and feed himself. Luxuries weren't in the budget.

He set his canvas out to dry and went to get lunch.

When he returned the canvas was where he'd left it.

It was not the canvas he'd left.

The father's left arm was gone, slashed over with rough strokes of red paint. His eyes were black hollows. The room was freezing. Steve's heart raced as every hair stood on end. A harsh crackling pulled his eyes to the right. Ice was slowly creeping up the side of the water jar he used for his brushes. His eyes darted back to the canvas, to the black void where the father's eyes used to be.

They were watching him.

It was impossible. It was a painting. They weren't even eyes, just splashes of black paint applied with no skill, but Steve knew they were watching him. Fear was prickling over his skin, was racing up his spine, the ancient reptile part of his brain was screaming at him to run, but there was nothing to run _from_ , there was no one else in the apartment, except he could see the canvas, the slashes of red, the slashes of black and he _knew_.

He was not alone.

He swallowed hard. It was colder, his breath a white cloud in the air, and the water was frozen solid.

Steve was a brave man. He was a braver man than most. He didn't run. He backed out of the room, vague memories of half-forgotten documentaries telling him to never turn his back on a predator.

He made it to the living room with the crushing weight of that gaze following him as he blindly grabbed his keys, his wallet, his phone and he didn't run as he left the apartment.

 

* * *

 

"What can I do for you, Mr Rogers?" The building agent sounded like she always did, prim and professional.

Steve was standing in the brightest patch of sunlight he'd been able to find, trying to chase away the cold that had seeped into his bones. "Is the apartment haunted?" he asked, not quite believing the words were coming out of his mouth. But he wasn't stupid and he was beyond denying the evidence that'd been piling up in front of him, even if he'd refused to see it until now.

"You can't actually expect me to answer that question."

"Okay, how about this. Did someone _die_ in my apartment?"

"Yes, someone died in it."

"How about you tell me about that, then."

Steve could hear the sound of papers being shuffled. "In 1973 a young man was murdered by his uncle in the second bedroom, partially dismembered, and not found for several weeks," she said, reciting the details as if they were no more interesting than when the flooring had been installed.

"You don't think that's the sort of thing you should tell someone before they sign a lease?" Steve asked, fighting to keep his tone civil. 

"No."

"And how about if I told you I was going to break my lease because you couldn't be bothered to tell me you were renting me an apartment someone was murdered in?" If he could break his lease, get his security deposit back and walk away, he could probably find some cheap, shithole apartment he could share with a rat and a family of roaches and he'd be okay.

"Well, Mr Rogers, I'd probably say that one, New York law doesn't require me to disclose that sort of information to renters, only to buyers, and two, the financial penalty for breaking your lease would be significant and you'd be blacklisted in every tenancy database in the state." She paused, then went on, sounding slightly more human, "I think you, just like everyone else, has heard stories about that apartment and let your imagination run away with you. It's an old apartment. It creaks, it groans, it has uneven floors and temperature changes. If every tenant who's called me complaining that the apartment is _haunted_ ," her sarcasm came through very clearly, "would take a minute to remember that they're an adult, my life and yours would be much easier."

"Lady, you're a real piece of work," Steve said, and ended the call.

 

* * *

 

"I'm not leaving." Steve leaned against the back door, chin up, shoulders wide. Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing in the world, but he'd never liked bullies. He'd never let them push him around. You start running from bullies and you'd never stop.

He could feel eyes on him like a heavy weight, pushing him towards the floor. Could feel anger. The ever-present cool breeze, whispering through his hair. It was picking up, getting stronger, and it wasn't cool at all, it was cold. It was freezing. He shivered and blamed it on the cold.

A mug flew off the counter, smashed against the wall next to his head, shrapnel exploding in a sharp arc to slice a thin bloody line into his cheek. He couldn't help the flinch, clapped his hand over the cut. "I'm _not_."

An apparition appeared in the middle of the room.

Steve couldn't call him a ghost. _Ghost_ was a friendly word, _Casper_ and _Scooby Doo,_ and this was death stripped raw. He was a hollow-eyed, bloody-shouldered apparition, left arm missing, long hair framing a face that could have been beautiful but was terrifyingly blank.    

"You don't scare me," Steve said, standing defiant and tall, hand over his bleeding cheek, and oh, it was a lie. It was a _lie_. He was afraid. Adrenaline was screaming through him, the tang of iron was in his mouth, he was shivering like there were livewires under his skin and he was afraid. Every instinct was screaming at him to run but he had nowhere to go.

Wind was whipping around him, dragging at his hair, at his clothes. Objects were flying off the shelves, off the counters, crashing to the floor. The sound of breaking glass pulled his eyes to the walls. The few framed pictures he had left were shattering, the glass cracking, and he lunged for his mother's photo.

"No. Please, no." It took him three steps to reach it and he was dragging it off the wall even as the wind was tearing at him, as the cold was making his teeth chatter, setting it on the floor, trying to pick the glass off, brushing it away. "Please, it's all I have left of her." He curled protectively over it, squinting up into the wind at the apparition. "I can't leave. I tried, I tried to get out of it, but I _can't_. There's nowhere else for me to go. I'd give this place back to you if I could but I can't, okay?"

The wind was snatching the words from his mouth as he spoke, the apparition staring down at him.

"She died and she was all I had and I'm alone and I can't leave and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't leave and I'm sorry about what happened to you. I'm _sorry_." It was so cold his bones were aching and he curled tighter over his mother's photo.

The apparition flickered, there, gone, there again. The weight of his gaze hammered into Steve. In a voice like white noise he rasped, "Mine."

Steve wanted to cringe away from the sound but he held fast. Took a deep breath. Pressed the back of his hand to the slice on his cheek and lifted his eyes to the apparition's face. "I know it's yours. I'm sorry. I'll move everything out of the second bedroom. Everything. I won't go in there. I'll get a lock for it and I'll figure out a way to give you the key. I'll _never_ go in there. Ever. It's all I can do. I can't leave." 

His eyes were horrifying, might once have been blue, but it was like the pupils had cracked, leaked into the colour, turning them into blue-black pools of nothing. The apparition didn't speak, flickered once and vanished, but the wind slowed. The cold dropped to something bearable.

Steve shuddered, drew in ragged breath after ragged breath. He didn't move for a long time.

 

* * *

 

Steve didn't sleep. He carefully picked all the glass off his mother's picture. Apart from the smallest nick in the top corner, barely visible, it wasn't damaged. He cleaned up the mess. He was numb, felt like he was moving in a fog. 

When he made his way to the hardware store, the sales clerk had to ask him three times what he wanted. Steve told him and the clerk took a long look at him, told him to stay put, came back with everything he needed, charged him and sent him on his way. Just this once, Steve didn't care about the money.

From the moment he returned to the apartment, he could feel eyes on him, feel the weight of them, pushing him down. He managed to suppress a shiver.

He installed the padlock on the outside of the second bedroom's door. He no longer gave even the smallest of damns about his security deposit.

It took him several minutes of standing outside the room before he could make himself go in. When he stepped over the threshold he went still. His breath was fogging the air. It was freezing. He wasn't sure he'd have the courage to make himself come back, so he put his head down and kept going, piling everything in the hallway. Didn't go and get a sweater or gloves. But it was so cold he ached, everything hurt and he was shivering so hard he dropped a handful of brushes and had to scramble after them.

He clenched his fists, looked down at the floor, sideways at the wall. "Could you- Maybe a little less cold? This actually hurts." The watching, the weight, the silence got heavier. He shuddered and wished like hell he'd kept his damned mouth shut.

Steve reached for a chair, hauled it up, let out a breath and as he watched its curl of fog faded.

It was still cold, but it was better. He swallowed, licked his lips. Tipped his head. "Thanks."

When the room was empty, he clicked the padlock shut and slid both keys under the door.

 

* * *

 

It had been three days. Three days of that constant heavy weight he knew was the apparition, that pale, bloody-shouldered apparition, watching him. Three days of barely sleeping, of waking up in a cold sweat from half-formed nightmares he couldn’t remember. Three days of shivering, wearing two sweaters, watching his breath curl as the temperature plummeted with neither rhyme nor reason.

Except now he knew the reason. He wondered if it meant the apparition was standing near him. Was breathing over his shoulder.

Years of refusing to be afraid of people bigger than him, of people that could hurt him if they wanted to, of taking the fight to them when needed, kept him on his feet and in the apartment and working.

It was the only thing that did.

Three days after he'd locked the padlock and slid the keys under the door he stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stared at himself in the mirror. The new mirror. He was paler than usual, maybe even skinnier than usual. "Not really surprising, is it?"

The apparition appeared in the mirror beside him and Steve yelped, heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. He didn't look over his shoulder, didn't want to know if he was standing that close but he knew he was; Steve could feel the cold on his skin. His breath was curling in the air. He clutched the edge of the bathroom sink, knuckles white.

He stood, staring at Steve in the mirror, blue-black eyes meeting Steve's, then he flickered and vanished.

He took the crushing weight with him. For the first time in three days it was gone. Steve felt like he'd passed a test. Maybe. He let his head fall and breathed deep, breathed through the relief of not carrying that weight.

 

* * *

 

"Heard this place was supposed to be haunted." The guy's voice was muffled, not surprising since it was coming from inside the oven. The oven that had broken and taken the stove with it. Steve would have lived with it, but he needed it to cook. Making ends meet meant cooking his own meals, which meant a working stove, which had meant calling the building agent and a repairman in the apartment.

The apparition was furious. Steve could feel it pressing on his skin, could feel anger pulsing out of the walls. Why couldn't this guy feel it? Steve could barely breathe with the weight pushing down on him. "Is it?"

"That's what I've heard." The man hummed off-key as he did something arcane with the oven. "Heard they can't keep anyone in this place more than a week." Steve didn't say anything. He needed to get this guy out of here. "You ever seen anything weird?"

"No."

The guy pulled his head out of the oven and gave him a look. "Not much of a talker are you?"

"No." Steve had been raised better than to be rude, had been raised not to be a liar, but he was afraid. He could feel it getting colder and he could feel the weight pushing him down and he was afraid of what was going to happen if this guy didn't leave. "You just about done?"

There was a metallic clanging noise, and a click, and the man gave a satisfied grunt. "Am now."

Steve signed the paperwork the man put in front of him and all but pushed him out the back door. He could tell the guy thought he was rude but he was beyond caring when he could hardly breathe with the weight on him. The minute the door closed the temperature plummeted and the wind exploded, a tornado of anger.

Steve hit the floor, crouched down with his hands over his head. The kitchen was filled with things that could hurt him, with things that could kill him. His eyes were squeezed shut. The cupboard doors were slamming, the drawers were rattling, but he gradually realised there was something missing. He cautiously opened his eyes, then lifted his head.

Nothing was flying around the room. That was almost more frightening. There were knives in a block on the counter, a cast iron pan hanging from a hook on the wall, papers on the counter: the wind was buffeting him, rushing through his hair, his clothes, but _they_ weren't moving so much as an inch. Steve frowned, sat up on his knees. His eyes were watering, he was shivering from the cold, but he tentatively said, "He's gone and he won't be coming back."

The wind died as the apparition appeared. He was looming over Steve and Steve scrambled to his feet, kept going until his back hit the counter.

"Mine." It was less white noise, still raspy and harsh, but more like a man's voice.  

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry." Steve braced himself. Called himself ten kinds of fool for even thinking of asking, because who knew what kind of storm he was going to touch off, but he was still going to do it. Because nothing had moved even in the middle of that hurricane. Nothing had broken. Nothing had hurt him. "What's your name?"

The apparition stared at him. He took a step forward, flickered, and was suddenly _right there_ in front of Steve and Steve sucked in a sharp breath because he was too close and Steve had nowhere to go, was pinned against the counter. This close, Steve could see the planes and angles of his strangely beautiful face, his chin-length hair falling forward across his cheeks, and his eyes were more than blue-black hollows: there were shadows and lights deep inside, like traps to lure the unwary. Steve couldn't look away. He was caught. He was lost.

The apparition tilted his head and then he was gone.

Steve let out the breath he'd been holding and blinked several times, like a man coming out of the dark into bright sunlight. "Rogers, you are dumb as a bag of hammers."

 

* * *

 

When he got out of the shower that night there was a word written on the fogged up mirror: _Bucky._

"Bucky. Is that your name?"

Everything on the shower shelf clattered to the floor.

"Okay." Steve took a deep breath. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff. "Okay. Your name is Bucky. Okay."

 

* * *

 

A week later, Steve was sitting on the couch watching TV at two am, sleep having eluded him, when Bucky appeared next to his knee. He jumped, his heart started to race, but Bucky simply stood, staring down at him. The temperature didn't drop, the breeze didn't rise, the weight on Steve's skin remained the same steady constant.

"Bucky?" Steve said his name tentatively, not sure what would happen.

His blue-black eyes flicked over Steve's face, down to his hands, his feet, back up, but that was his only response. Steve could feel the cold curling off him and he shivered. Bucky's eyes flicked over him again. Steve cautiously reached for the sweater resting on the arm of the couch, moving slowly.

Bucky didn't react.

He pulled it on and leaned back. He was stiff with tension but he returned to staring at the TV. He didn't see any of it, wasn't even sure what he was watching. It was hard to relax, hard to concentrate, when there was a pale, bloody-shouldered apparition looming over you.

Bucky remained at Steve's knee, still as a statue, for hours. Steve realised uneasily that at some point while Bucky stood over him he must have relaxed completely, no matter how impossible he would have thought that was.

Must have, because he woke to the morning light and Bucky was gone.

 

* * *

 

Bucky didn't destroy things, didn't throw things, didn't hide things but sometimes he'd...forget. Or at least that's what Steve thought it was. Steve thought Bucky would forget him, forget Steve was allowed to be here. If he was allowed to be here. Steve still wasn't sure exactly what deal had been struck between the two of them.

One night, Steve woke up to Bucky standing over his bed, his eyes like holes in the world, the bloody shoulder stark and violent. Steve went still, a rabbit under the shadow of a hawk, shivering with cold, with the weight crushing him down.

There was _never_ anything human in Bucky's stillness, nothing in his cold, flickering presence that Steve could call emotion, but this was different. Steve was certain Bucky didn't know who he was.

He stood over Steve for a long time. Steve didn't move, just waited patiently and kept looking up at him. Finally, something in him seemed to ease. It wasn't anything Steve could put his finger on, but Steve thought Bucky knew him again.

Steve said his name. Said it again, gently.

Bucky's eyes flicked down over Steve, around the room, back to Steve's face, then he disappeared.

 

* * *

 

Steve didn't know what it said about him that he got used to looking up and seeing Bucky, silent and still and bloody-shouldered, standing over him. That he got used to the ever-present breeze that lifted his hair and raised goosebumps on his skin. That he got used to the weight he knew meant Bucky was watching him, even when he couldn't be seen. Maybe it was like any other load a person had to carry: no matter how heavy, no matter how much you were sure you couldn’t do it, carry it long enough and eventually you'd adapt.

It wasn't always there. He could go days without it. Without the sudden temperature drops. Without having to pull on one of the sweaters he left lying around the apartment. Anyone who stopped by would probably think Steve was expecting a second, extremely localised ice age to descend at any moment. Not entirely inaccurate, he guessed, not that people dropped by. He didn't want a repeat of the repairman incident and it wasn't like there were people he wanted to invite over even if he'd been willing to risk it.

Steve didn't know what it said about him that, when the weight was gone for too long, he wondered when it was coming back. Nothing good, he suspected.

 

* * *

 

Steve was pulled out of sleep by a rattling noise from the bathroom. He knew it wasn't Bucky because there was no weight on his skin, no cold air making him shiver. He grabbed his bat and crept down the hall. The bathroom light was on. He could feel the old fire rising up in him, the one that drove him into alleys and laneways and fights with assholes who thought they could shove people around. He used the tip of the bat to push the door open.

There was a man going through his medicine cabinet, skinnier than Steve, skin sickly pale, hair lanky and, when he turned, his eyes were wild. "How about you get the fuck out and we'll call it good," Steve suggested, holding the bat ready to swing. Steve was no expert, but he'd bet money the guy was high as a kite.

The guy grinned, giving Steve a good view of rotting teeth, and before Steve could wonder what he was grinning about there was a meaty arm around his chest, he was being held tight against a warm, sweaty body, and there was a line of sharp, cold metal at his throat. There was hot, moist breath and a voice in his ear saying, "Or we could fuck you up a little. Have some fun."

Steve didn't have time to think about swinging the bat, barely had time to be afraid, before the weight came down. The crushing weight. The walls were breathing rage, his breath curled like fog and he shivered as goosebumps raced across his skin. Bucky flickered into view and vanished like a warning and Steve closed his eyes. The arm holding him was gone, the cold line of metal _the knife, it was a knife_ at his throat was gone. He could hear muffled sounds that desperately wanted to be screams, cracking bone and dull thumps of meat, then silence.

He opened his eyes. Bucky was in front of him. The hallway was freezing, the weight pushing down on him almost more than he could carry, but Steve welcomed it. He swallowed. "Where." Bucky flickered, disappeared, but Steve turned, found him standing near the back door. It was open.

Slowly, Steve walked over to look through it and saw two bodies in the alley, two stories down. They had to be bodies because no one alive could have necks at that angle. He didn't know if Bucky had done that then thrown them, or if he'd thrown them and that had happened. "Oh." Bucky slowly turned his head to look at him. Steve met his eyes and realised he _did_ know. They'd been dead when they went out the door. The cold swirling off Bucky and over his skin seemed to soak into his soul. Steve knew he should be shocked, should be horrified, but somehow he couldn't get there. "I have to call the police." Bucky flickered and was gone. Not gone. He was still there, Steve could feel the weight of him. Knew he was watching, knew he wasn't alone.

He tidied the bathroom. He put the bat away. He called the police. They sent a patrol car, two polite male officers, and for the first time ever in his life Steve was glad to be small. To be the kind of man other men looked at and dismissed as insignificant. As weak. As harmless. Because he looked them right in the eye and he _lied_. No officers, they never made it into the apartment. Those marks on the door? They must have tried to break in, but I guess they didn't manage it. Maybe they got in a fight about it? I only woke up because I thought I heard raised voices outside. Yes, that's when I saw the bodies. Yes, it was very upsetting. I called it in right away. He widened his eyes and made himself look helpless and frail and they never questioned his story. They took his statement and thanked him for being a good citizen.

He lied because what version of truth could he possibly tell?

While he lied to the police people with lights and cameras and loud voices did whatever they needed to do in the alley and on his landing and eventually took the bodies away. Steve was sure whatever tests they ran, they'd show no one human had laid a hand on either one.

Then they were gone and he was left with the weight and the fear. Because now that it was over Steve could feel the metal of the blade against his throat. He knew what Bucky had saved him from and his body had decided it was time to be afraid. He fought it back, breathed through it, and focused on the heavy weight pressing down on him that meant he wasn't alone.

When it was done, he went and showered because he could still feel the meaty arm across his chest, the sweaty warmth against his back. The water was as hot as he could stand and he hugged himself when he realised the heavy weight was gone. He wondered if he was damaged somehow when he wanted to clutch after it and get it back.

Steve went to bed because it was three am. He assumed he'd stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night, but he fell into sleep, curled half on his side, one arm hanging off the bed. His dreams were uncomfortable, not nightmares, just painful and unpleasant and he twitched in his sleep, curling into a tighter curve. He woke an hour later. There was something cold gripping his wrist, sliding down to his hand. His eyes snapped open.

Bucky was next to the bed, his blue-black eyes level with Steve's. He was a pale, bloody-shouldered apparition and his face didn't change, remained still and expressionless, as he gently slid his fingers through Steve's.

Steve didn't pull away.

He didn't think he was afraid. His heart was beating faster, he imagined the cold was seeping into his fingers and through his veins, and some distant part of him was begging him to run, but it was so far away Steve could barely hear it. He didn't try and pull his hand away. He closed his fingers around Bucky's. "You saved me," he said, and it was barely a whisper.

"Yes." Bucky's voice was raspy, rough, but the white noise static was gone completely and he was lifting Steve's hand to hold it against his chest as he rose to his knees, looking down at him.

"Why?"

Bucky's head tilted, still no expression on his face, but he was studying Steve and Steve could do nothing but stare up at him, his fingers tightening around Bucky's. "This place is mine."

"Yes."

Bucky was leaning over him, shoulders mantled like a predatory bird, but his hand was gentle around Steve's. Steve was very aware there was no heart beating in Bucky's chest where his hand was pressed against it, that one shoulder was a bloody, broken mess, but it wasn't making him pull away. It was making him clutch Bucky's hand more tightly. "You're in this place." 

"Yes," Steve said, shivering, and he didn't know if it was from cold or fear or something else entirely. 

Bucky's hair was brushing Steve's cheeks, caging him in, blocking out the rest of the world. Cold curled off his skin and across Steve's and his face was so close Steve could see the strange lights deep in depths of his eyes. "You're mine."

Steve drew in a sharp breath and felt a sudden sense of _rightness_ he knew was utterly wrong. He didn't try and fight it, just pressed closer to Bucky and let out a long shuddering sigh. "Yes."


End file.
